I am walking across the park to De Carle Lane which will spit me out onto Albion Street. My name is Vicente and I have change jingling in my pocket, enough to drag down my jeans, which are new, stolen from the Bench store in the city, even though they were on sale. They are shiny and black and haven’t started to go baggy. I need to get rid of some of the change so I’m heading for Albion Street Corner Market where I will buy unfiltered Camels. This is what I am thinking as I am crossing the park in a darkness as matt as my jeans and I feel little effervescent bubbles escape up behind me in my wake, and I am imagining these are the coins in my pockets. I haven’t lived here long. It’s a place where I never speak Chilean. Sometimes I become conscious I...